


Glory & Calamity

by Ms_Minty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Memory Alteration, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Minty/pseuds/Ms_Minty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape finds an appropriate vessel for ultimate victory and eventual destruction. Time, forgetting, magic, power, and eventual redemption, in this little, sinister tale. This is a prequel to The Jade Snake, though it could stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

He stood in the garden, a shadow against the twilight snow. Unsettled by an earlier conversation, annoyed by the children finding dark corners for their fumbling intimacies, but now alone, in the dark, as he liked it. The falling snowflakes showed no respect for gravity; they twirled and launched themselves into the air, filling his eyelashes, his boots, his cloak with tiny diamonds. He was silent, he was the abyss. A great sigh scattered the snowflakes in front of his face.

Across the garden, near the entrance gate, a matching sigh and the hiss of an almost-silent spell broke his reverie. He didn’t move. Another amorous couple, another discreet conversation? Wearisome. He slowly shifted his stance to blend into the outline of a shrub.

The noise had come from a small, blue glow at the garden gate. A slender will-o’-wisp in a girlish ball gown, expertly curled hair now falling over her shoulders, all made an ethereal blue by small, flickering flames held in her hands. She also seemed tired, but that was not surprising, as dawn was creeping toward the horizon. For now, it was still inky dark, lit only by a haze of snow and a small unworldly sylph, come to mourn her disastrous evening.

Snape stood still, waiting to see which of the idiots would join her—Weasley the fathead, or the Durmstrang dolt. Hermione stood alone, caressing her blue flames for warmth. A shiver ran through her and Snape then knew she was alone. He was bemused by their shared presence, in the garden, in the snow. 

And then she turned toward him, snow still billowing around her. She cocked her head to one side and then cast a shield, air vibrating with magic. Snape rolled his eyes and stepped out of the shadows, wand down, but ready. 

Hermione hesitated, then dropped the shield. Snape let one side of his mouth drag upward into the closest thing he had to a smile. He stepped forward, into the blue light, intending to send her on her way. As he drew closer, he hesitated. The flickering, cerulean glow infused her eyes, her sculpted collarbone and fine, slender arms. Unwillingly, he found his hand raised to one of the lazy curls on her shoulder.

He gathered it into his hand, stroked the lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger. She was silent, still, something else in her eyes. 

“Beautiful.” It was as if someone else had said it. Someone behind him, someone that hadn’t been touched by the immense sorrow of his life. Hermione, eyes dark and liquid, made him new again. And yet…yes. There was the task that needed to be done. And now it was obvious how to do it. She stood in the snow as if made out of ivory, almost as if she didn’t need to breathe. He gently let the curl fall back onto her shoulder, moving his hand to clasp her cheek. 

“Beautiful, and yet we must wait.” Her eyes ignited. His thumb moved to her lower lip and he pressed lightly, as if leaving an stamped impression, a seal of possession. Her lips pursed to meet his thumb, light, tenuous—a promise.

Then she turned on her heel and fled back into the safety of the school, back where she was Hermione the swot and everything made sense.

Snape tipped his head back and smiled his half-smile into the oncoming snow, a moment of glory. Then the consequences rippled across his face and he hunched forward into his cloak, a ragged shadow once again.


	2. Chapter 2

She had ran that night, back past the glowing lights of the party, all the way back up to her shared room. Her breath was loud in her ears, her heels rang in the empty halls. The room was dark, silent—the other girls were still at the ball. Hermione sat heavily on the edge of her bed and began to remove the pins from her hair. Each pin clattered on the floor, surrounding her discarded shoes. So much for being an adult. So much for a lovely evening. She stood, unzipped her dress and let it pool at her feet.

Hermione knew that the dark man in the whirling blizzard had been Professor Snape, that snide, impossible man who deigned to teach Potions. But for a moment he had seemed something else, something other out in the snow. He was quiet, almost tender, and he had touched her hair, her lips. Her hand rose to the same spot, unbidden, and something caught her eye, a flash of blue. 

The mirror across the room was mostly covered by Lavender’s stockings and other remnants of girlish party preparation, but there was something flickering blue, next to a smudged lipstick kiss on the glass. Hermione moved closer, brushed aside the limp nylons, and the blue light grew, shined. She realized that it was coming from her, from underneath her slip. She lifted the slip over her head and looked again.

Small blue flames licked over her body, following her small breasts and stomach like lay lines. She traced the lines with her hands, and the flames caressed her fingers, diminished, then sprang back into life after she moved her hands away. She slowly turned, and they were on her back, flickering down her hair to play over her back. A line trailed between her legs, into her panties and she could feel the warmth there especially. 

In her rush to get away, she had forgotten to extinguish the bluebell flames, but they should have just winked out when she stopped paying attention. Instead they had infused her skin, sparking across her naked body. She touched the lines at her breasts and followed the warmth down her stomach, to the glow between her legs. She hooked a finger into her panties and slid them off. The blue blazed as she touched herself, and she saw her face change in the mirror, from curiosity to…something else. Her eyelids lowered, she bit her lip, and touched herself again, more insistent this time, and her knees almost buckled.

Hermione moved back to her bed, closed the curtains, and became engulfed in her own, otherworldly blue glow. She experimentally pinched her nipples, then moved both hands to play with herself. She closed her eyes and could feel Snape’s finger on her lips, gasped, and arched into her hand. While Hermione had thoroughly explored her body before, she had never sustained her attention long enough to feel like this. 

The blue light flared behind her eyelids and she opened her eyes once again. The light was like a beacon, great gouts of flame coming off her body, but she didn’t care, she plunged her fingers into her sex, again, and again. Her hair went wild as she thrashed her head side to side. A small, keening wail escaped her lips and she collapsed in the agony of her first orgasm. Unnoticed, the bluebell flames diminished into embers, then vanished back into her skin.

In the morning, a sunbeam slipped into the room arced between a small crack in her bed curtains and lit Hermione’s sleeping face. A small speck of soot landed on her nose and she sneezed, waking herself up. She rubbed her nose and opened her eyes. There was a large, blackened, sooty hole on her bed canopy. Her eyes flew wide and she reached for her wand, still in the heaped ball gown next to her bed. A whispered spell, and the bed was repaired.

Later, after her bath, Hermione discovered bright red blood between her thighs. She was startled, then a wry smile crossed her lips. Merry Christmas indeed. It was a day of firsts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more like prologue-part-2. We'll get on with the story in the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

She watched him, then. 

He would catch her. Sometimes he would look up from the mass of papers on his desk to find her thickly lashed eyes fixed on him, lips slightly parted, head tilted to one side. He did not sneer or comment, but would let the world fall away around their connection. In his eyes, he knew, he held a question. 

Her reply would come: a quick startle from her reverie, a doe suddenly aware of her fate, and she’d look away. He would look back down at his papers. Not yet.

This dance continued, and he felt his desire gutter, the lowest fires licking and jumping at his maw, his black heart crushing each spark until he was sure that it had been a mistake. And then he saw her, haloed in a window frame, the ancient leaded glass distorting the greens and greys of the Scottish springtime into impressionist smudges. She looked defeated, at odds with the idiot boys, no doubt. Her shoulders slumped and she raised a single finger to the misty windowpane. She scrawled a drippy star, then a heart, then a question mark. 

He made a small noise, and Hermione slashed through the designs, then whirled around, eyes wide. He closed the distance between them with a single step, eyes narrowed, his cloak sweeping forward, anticipating him. She said nothing, but her lips opened with a gleam of teeth. Her breasts, small, yet graceful swells beneath her uniform, betrayed the hitch in her breath. Snape reached toward her lips, then stopped short. His hand glided over her cheek, so close she could feel the small breeze left by his fingers, and toward her hair. The barest touch of one of her curls, then his hand hovered over her chest, a whisper-glide over the fabric. He held her gaze, and saw her pupils widen into black pools. Down, down, over her belly and around her slim waist.

Snape’s eyes narrowed and his mouth curled into a sneer. He grabbed Hermione’s ass and ground her into him, and she could feel his heat pressed against her stomach. She gasped and he thrust toward her again, his other hand winding into her hair, tilting her head back. His hands had full possession of her, his fingers leaving bruises. She was panting now, her eyes half-closed, and she was writhing against his hardness. He dove toward her mouth, stopping just short of her lips. Their breaths mingled, he was mountainously tall, and his black hair hung over them both like a veil. 

They stood like that, together, their desire burning white hot. Hermione’s eyelids fluttered and a small, animal noise escaped her throat. Snape’s eyes flew open, then narrowed again. He brought his lips down to hers, feather-light, a saintly, pure touch. Just as she moved to deepen the kiss, he whispered:

“Obliviate.”


	4. Chapter 4

His towering anger was out of place in the white, quiet serenity of the infirmary. He paced in front of the iron cot, grinding his back teeth. Potter, that ass, that inane boy-child was responsible. If only he would just fucking listen. 

Hermione’s hair was spread out on her pillow, the weak sunshine through the leaded glass window criss-crossing her face, her small body beneath the sheets. Snape thought of the condensation on a similar glass window, the drippy heart, and felt his lips on hers, their shared heat. He thought he was being gallant, waiting, being kind to the girl by biding his time.

And now this. Dolohov’s curse ripping through her body. The dark purple winding around her guts, only blunted by Dolohov’s non-verbal casting. Snape’s lips pulled into a sneer, hating Harry for his impulsive idiocy, hating Dolohov and the ridiculous mess of Death Eaters, and himself. His hands tightened into fists inside the sleeves of his robes. The plan was almost ruined before it began. He looked up into the arcing stonework above the bed, proud white limestone held up by slender columns. He had spent hours in these hospital beds, studying that same ceiling. Sometimes angry, sometimes sorrowful, but always planning. 

There would be no more waiting. The war was upon them, and there was no more time for tender mercy. The dark slash of the whipcord-tight black figure stood in defiance of the chaste sunlight, the crisp, white sheets, and the chestnut curls surrounding her sleeping face. He would devour her whole, make her stronger, and she would win the war. His pleasure in consuming Hermione and his subsequent death would be of no consequence.

When he turned and stalked out of the hospital wing, Hermione’s eyes snapped open.

***

Snape did wait though, a little while, watching Hermione gingerly walking down stairs, excusing herself to take a barrage of potions. She would be leaving for home soon, and out of his reach. The timing must be perfect.

Snape habitually sought out her profile, gazing down from the high table at breakfast. Hermione showed no hint that she remembered their encounter, but she still looked at him from time to time. Less nervous now, after a great battle and a great wound, she did not tear her eyes away but fixed him with an even curiosity. Much of her attention was taken up by the miserable Harry and her own injury, but she still sought out his dark figure. Perhaps she sensed that something had changed, and the waiting was nearly finished.

It was one of these mornings that he finally saw her smile, laugh at something Ginny said. And he knew it had to be that night. He folded his napkin and put it on the table. 

***

Her summons came in the form of a single word, scrawled at the top of an essay. tonight. Hermione’s flicked up from the scroll, but Snape had already moved on, eyes hidden behind a veil of hair as he tossed another scroll into the lap of a student. When her eyes returned to the scroll, all but one letter of the word had faded. The “o” remained. She tucked the scroll into the sleeve of her robe.

***

The low drone of Lavender’s snore drifted from between the curtains. Hermione took a deep breath then drew her coverlet back, already fully dressed. Something had grown quiet inside of her after her injury and the death of Sirius. This magical war was real, not a game, not something that would go away with a few swishes of a wand. She would not wake up in her muggle bed and remember it all as a dream. 

Still, the figure of Snape remained murky in her mind. She was cautious of his summons. Yet she still burned when she remembered his thumb on her lip. There was something else that teased at the edges of her mind but slipped from her grasp when she got too close. Hermione knew the telltale signs of a memory charm and she chewed her lip in frustration at the omission. 

She slipped out of the common room and crept down the hall, small bluebell flame in her palm casting underwater shadows on the portraits. The blue light pooled around a pair of black dragonskin boots. He stood still, in the middle of the hall, waiting for her to approach him. Snape’s eyes looked big and dark in the shadows, and his arms were folded across his chest. Hermione’s heart thrummed in her chest as she drew close.

Snape unfolded his arms, and reached out, clasping the underneath of her outstretched hand, beneath the blue spark. His long fingers curled around the back of her hand, and he drew it up. He examined the flame, blue lighting his features, glinting off his jet black hair. A breath escaped his lungs and he suddenly drew the flame into his mouth, inhaling the light, and Hermione felt a strange reverberation through her body. She realized that he was kissing her palm, and the flame was warm and tingling through his lips. 

His hand clenched tight then, and he yanked her into his arms, lips crashing down on hers. Hermione inhaled in alarm and felt the flame pass back to her, reheated, charged, made more intense by the brief time within Snape’s mouth. The heat licked her insides and Snape’s tongue chased it into her mouth, and they were kissing through the flame. Snape bent her almost backwards, and she could feel her hair hanging behind her like a chestnut flag. He withdrew and the bond was suddenly broken again, and she breathed in great gasps that shook the dark air around them. Snape kept his hand wound tightly around her own, and tugged.

“Come.”

***

Snape’s synapses were still firing blue sparks behind his eyes as he dragged Hermione up, up the stairs. His cock was tight against his trousers and he could not drag her quickly enough up the tower. In another time this could have been done slowly, seductively, the drowsy flirtation of two magical creatures falling in love over books, coffee, and wine. Snape watched this happen to colleagues, to Lily and James, even occasionally between Death Eaters, though that was generally punctuated by at least a few episodes of torture and murder. It was never for him.

A small keening noise called him back to the present and he realized he had been dragging Hermione too fast, too viciously up, upwards. She was still injured. But they were there, and he threw open the wooden door to the flat, exposed rooftop on top of the tower. There was a steady rain; the night punctuated by bursts of lightning that Hermione hid her eyes in his cape. Snape kept his grip on her and threw the other hand up in the air. Lightning flashed and he felt his broom was snap into his hand.

Hermione jerked away from him when she saw the broom and shook her head furiously. Snape straddled the broom and roughly gathered her into his chest. The rain streaked down their robes, turned her hair into streaming rivulets. At his command the broom rocketed them over the edge and into the night. Hermione’s cries of fear and dismay were muffled by his chest and annihilated by the crashing thunder.

The broom flew like an arrow, dancing out of reach of the Whomping Willow, over Hagrid’s hut and into the Forbidden Forest, where the trees stood like black sentinels around them. Hermione’s face stayed hidden against his chest, but she had stopped wailing and was only slightly shaking. Snape cast a warming charm around them both, and the cold rain became the temperature of blood, dripping down between the leaves.

A small, dense copse of trees stood around a clearing, and Snape slowed his broom. In the middle of the clearing was a stump, top sheared away long ago by lightning, with the remains of the trunk standing jagged agains the night like a throne made of broken glass. Snape let his broom drift to the ground, and set Hermione on her feet. She looked up at him through her lank hair and she looked much younger than she was. His jaw tightened. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then opened them again.

Steam rose off the shimmering warming charm around them, and Snape shrugged off his robe. He clasped her hands in his, gently this time, and kissed her palms. The questions in her eyes held, but she did not speak. Snape sighed again.

“Nothing I can say to you will make sense, or make this right, Hermione.” The rain dripped from his hair to land on her face. “I cannot say this will work or is even necessary. Everything is uncertain. Everything is at stake. But I must try, as you would be the most important, the best kept secret.”

He clasped her hands to his cheeks. Part of him was disgusted, he was pleading with her, even though she would not remember it. “You will be a secret kept even from yourself. And I cannot even deny that I want it, want to do this thing to you, though it will almost certainly lead to my eternal damnation.”

Hermione bit her lip, the raindrops falling like tears on her face. Her dark brown eyes gazed at him and he realized the copse was lit with her flames, dancing around their ankles. He slipped into her mind unintentionally, her eyes inviting him in, and he saw Sirius die, the purple pain of Dolohov’s curse, and a glint of understanding how serious and deadly a war between magic users could be. She did not know nearly enough. But he could keep it from her, keep it from twisting her insides to mirror his own.

Her palms were warm on his cheeks and he leaned forward, gently kissing her. Her hands moved from his cheeks into his wet hair and she drew him closer to her. The little bluebell flames were larger, small fires that swirled and licked licked up their legs. Snape pushed Hermione’s robes off her shoulders and felt her small breasts beneath her woolen jumper. He groaned into her mouth and felt his cock come alive once again. He pressed its length against her and he felt her respond, pushing herself against the hardness. Their kisses grew savage and she bit his lip, small canine finding blood.

Suddenly the blue light was all around them, and he picked Hermione up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her woolen skirt bunched between them and he felt her heat close against him. He carried her to the ragged stump, and set her down in the center of the jagged black halo. Clothing askew, eyes dilated and swollen lips—she looked like an offering. She was an offering.

He pulled the jumper off, buttons flew as he ripped open her chaste white shirt and he lathed her nipples with his tongue, sucking and devouring her breasts. She arched off the stump into his mouth, gasping and struggling to somehow draw him even closer to her. He hooked his fingers into the top of her skirt and pulled down, dragging down her panties with it. She was naked then, naked except for her shiny black mary janes and knee socks. Naked and writhing under his ranging lips.

He tasted the soft divot of her navel, then moved beneath the wispy brown hair between her legs. She nearly sat up when his tongue touched her folds, then crashed down again, moaning and shuddering. He gloried in the taste of her, in the cries from her lips, her thighs pressing tight against him, urging him on. The entire copse was now lit, almost daylight, but an eerie blue, only punctuated by the bright white bursts of lightning above. 

The small heels of her shiny black mary janes drove into his back and her hands wove tightly into his hair. But he stopped, stopped though he wanted to keep going forever. Because it was time. 

Snape ripped open the front of his own shirt and drew out a small blade. He cut a long, shallow slash across his bare chest, red line bisecting many other old scars. He swiped a line across Hermione’s chest and she cried out, though her cry of pain was so similar to her cries of pleasure that he could hardly distinguish it. 

He chanted low in his throat, words rounded and ancient, not heard aloud in hundreds of years. The lightning crashed almost constantly, and the copse flashed blue and white. He opened his trousers and pulled out his cock. Snape touched his hand to his chest, feeling the blood and rain mix, then touched the shallow graze on Hermione’s chest. The blood mingled in his palm and he smeared it on his cock.

Bellowing the last few words of the incantation into the night, he thrust his cock into her, and she arched into him. He bent until their chests were pressed together and kept thrusting, driving Hermione into the blackened stump. She whimpered into his ear. He reached down until his thumb was on her nub and she became electric beneath him, biting his shoulder and clawing his arms. Hermione wailed again panting and crying and then was still for a single moment. Snape reached his rhythm and roared as he came in great gouts between her legs.

The blue light that had suffused the copse banked into smoke, and withdrew into a fog around Hermione. The rain had stopped and she glowed lightly in the mist. Snape withdrew his cock and slowly slumped to the ground, feeling drained, yet exquisite. He rubbed his temples and could feel the sharp sting of the slice across his chest. A hand lightly stroked his hair and he realized that Hermione had sat up on the stump. She looked regal, naked on her jagged throne, and he was cast between her legs, on the ground, nothing before her fairy majesty. Not even the small pool of semen and blood between her legs ruined the effect. She was still glowing slightly, but did not seem to notice it. He kissed her knee, and stood up, pushing himself back into his trousers.

He drew his wand lightly across his chest, then hers, sealing in the leaking blood. Snape kissed her again, could not resist it, and she smiled at him. His heart felt drained and raw. Much more than it should have, even after that most ancient of spells. He felt much older than his age, a ragged old man, a faded shadow of his former self. Still, the spell had worked and Hermione fairly hummed with magic. Not too much and not all at once.

But over time she would become the most beloved of weapons against his master. 

He matched her smile then, and whispered:

“Obliviate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took a while. I didn't edit it, will do that over the next couple of days. Sorry for mistakes.


	5. Chapter 5

He saw blue and white lightning tracers behind his eyes for weeks. And he didn’t mind. Blue flames danced and licked the edges of his vision, and he imagined her beneath him once again. He almost smiled. He had to be careful not to smile.

Snape didn’t miss the bit of his power that he gave to her. He didn’t miss it much. Oh, one of his potions would be waxy instead of shiny. His curses lost their ragged bite. But not so you’d notice, if you weren’t looking. In the meantime he gloried in looking at her, sparking with life and power, always outshining the other idiot students. His heart would still catch at the memory of kissing her soft, white thigh, pressed against the ragged stump. He would occasionally visit the clearing, and run a hand down his chest, down over his hard cock. The memory of her, the taste, the scent of her was fresh in his mind and it was all he could do to veil it from prying minds. Dumbledore and Voldemort. Neither were his masters now; there was only her. Hermione.

But how to have her again? It was critical that he possess her, that he give himself to her. Slowly, take his time—it wouldn’t do to become over-eager. But she was a fresh, raw addiction. And she was oblivious. Obliviated.

That night he had gently deposited her in her bed, cleaned, fresh, asleep and yet glowing, even then. The next morning Snape cast a bored gaze over the students at breakfast, and there she was, book in one hand, toast in the other hand, completely absorbed. So absorbed that she’d slowly stop chewing the toast and then remember that she was eating again when she’d turn the page. Weasley got her poached egg, and a rasher of her bacon and she only managed a withering look. Snape felt a sudden panic when he realized he had been staring for far too long. He forced his face into a sneer, and focused on his coffee. 

She was safe in her oblivion. He pushed away from the table and stalked away.

Hermione watched him leave over the top of her book.

XXXX

Tigger and Paddington Bear stared at her accusingly. It was a show-down, played out across a pastel blue duvet. She was determined to pack them up, to put away childish things. Hermione sat cross-legged on her bed, surveying her room. After Hogwarts, summers at home were a bit drab. Thankfully so, honestly, but she did miss Harry and Ron, and…other things that she couldn’t quite think of at the moment. She leaned back against the photo collage over her bed and picked out a bit of flimsy paper with florid purple font.

It was her old ticket to the Yule Ball. It seemed like ages had passed since, the Triwizard tournament, Dolores Umbridge and her blood quill, the battle that had cost the life of Sirius. The thin scar that stretched across her torso. It all seemed unreal in this little girl’s room. She leaned forward, snatched Tigger and Paddington and threw them under the bed. 

Almost without thinking she stretched a hand in front of her, and a small blue flame flickered into life. Casting her bluebell flame comforted her, while at the same time made her feel like a witch again. A true witch, from the fairytale books, clever and a bit sinister, controlling old magick over a cauldron. The spark grew into a fiery mandala, circling in front of her. She caressed it, shaped the edges into waves, into the shape of scales on a dragon’s neck. Wouldn’t Ron and Harry be surprised, with her official birthday not until September, doing magic outside of Hogwarts.

She smiled and let the flame flicker out.

XXXX

He stood over her, disgusted at himself. Disgusted, but needing her, even so. 

Snape rattled around Hogwarts after the students left, summoned by Dumbledore, then summoned by Voldemort, tired of their machinations. Wanting only her. Her light coral lips, her corkscrew curls, deep honey-brown eyes. So, this. Moonlight in a girls’ bedroom in a London suburb.

She was breathing lightly, light blue duvet only half-covering her, a worn “Tigger” doll clutched under one arm. He hated this. He was hard. 

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Hermione.” Every syllable a caress. She gave a low moan and turned over, eyelids fluttering, opening, eyes fixing on his figure, and his hand was over her mouth before she could scream. Once she recognized him, he slowly removed his hand from her mouth. 

“Professor Snape, is…is something wrong, is Harry….?” he replaced his hand over her mouth. 

“Shhhhhhh. Nothing is wrong.” Her eyes held sleepy questions, then cleared. He did not move his hand. She lay very still, her only movement her small breasts, raising, falling, filling her chest with air, exhaling through her nose. Then, the smallest of movements, her lips pursed against his hand in a soft kiss. He raised his hand, clutching the faint impression, then crashed his lips into hers. He kissed her deeply, probingly, hands in her hair, hands flowing down her chest, over her flimsy nightgown and she reached up to him, hungrily, drawing him down into the bed. His hand bumped against something furry—Tigger—and he threw it over the side of the bed.

He had her nightgown up, and was lathing her breasts, like he’d imagined so many times as he watched her scratch words onto parchment, stirring a cauldron, waving her wand over a book. He took one of her nipples into his mouth and she made a small keening noise in her throat. Without thinking, he started to cast a quick Muffliato, but stopped. No, no new magic.

Instead, he pressed a finger against her lips again. Her lips parted, and her tongue darted out to caress his thumb. He was entranced, then pushed it farther in her mouth. She met his gaze, shadows in moonlight, and sucked gently. Snape snarled and drew back, freeing his straining cock from his trousers. She half-crawled out from under the duvet, and he pulled her toward him, down, and pressed his cock against her lips. 

They were still for a moment, his cockhead pressing, demanding to be taken by her lips. And then she opened her lips and drew him in, and his fingers tangled in her hair. He drove himself into her mouth, luxuriating in her tongue, in her warm wetness. He hadn’t noticed that he closed his eyes, but when he opened them, blue flames were roiling around the bed, fire wheels turning into sacred geometry around them. 

How could she know, what could she be thinking? He had shown up in the middle of the night, and was taking her in the house of her parents, taking her hard, without quarter. He didn’t care. He thrust into her mouth.

Two or three more thrusts and he pulled her away from him by her hair, glistening strands of saliva and precum linking her mouth with his cock. He forcefully turned her over and spread her legs. Nothing could keep him away from her. He drove his cock into her from behind, and she grabbed the thin rails of her headboard, gasping, shuddering, blue flames sliding off her glistening back. 

He clenched his teeth and rode her hard, driving her into the headboard, not caring about her stupid Muggle parents hearing their daughter’s moans, needing her beyond all reason. Snape reached around her and plucked at her clit in time with his deep thrusts, provoking Hermione into a keen of pleasure. The bed was being driven against the wall, and he was certain that at any moment her parents would come in, the Order of the Phoenix would fly through the window, hell, sodding Voldemort could rise out of the floor. It didn’t matter.

The blue flames engulfed him, forcing themselves down his throat, burning at his fingers as they wrapped around Hermione’s hips, his heart was going like mad, and she came, shuddering, white-knuckled grip on the headboard, and he roared after her, emptying himself between her thighs. 

When he opened his eyes, he realized he had half-collapsed on Hermione, both flattened. A high-pitched hum rang in his ears, like he had just heard a crash or an explosion. He was still inside of her, a slight movement slipping him out, messy. Weak. So very weak. Hermione stirred beneath him, and he rolled off, afraid of her eyes. 

She pushed the hair out of his eyes and stroked his cheek. Blue sparks glinted in her hair. He marveled at her. 

“You are doing this to me, aren’t you?” Hermione rolled onto her side and waved a lock of hair at him. 

Snape was silent, a shadow of regret. After a long moment, he found the strength to speak, “Yes. But how did you know?” 

“My Bluebell flame has gotten brighter, high, and sometimes wild.” A large whirling pool of fire wooshed into existence over their bodies, bathing them in a blue glow. Just as suddenly it winked out again. Snape stroked her face, her breasts, traced the lines of her body. But he couldn’t tarry.

He sat up, straightened his clothes, and turned back to her. She was watching him, eyes wide. He leaned forward, but she broke his gaze and looked down.

“Why won’t you let me remember? We have done this before, I could feel it. ”

He sighed. “It’s for the best. It’s for your protection.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. He cruelly grabbed her chin and forced her head up.

“Obliviate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirty. Sorry. I'll come back and check for errors and awkwardness later.


End file.
